dark fantasies

All posts tagged dark fantasies

“Hungry for You”

Published 02/10/2015 by aleenas0510

I should be angry by the time you come through the door, because you’re late. Instead, the waiting has only made me hungrier for you. I wait until you set down your briefcase, close the door, shrug out of the charcoal gray jacket of your expensive suit. I wait as you hang it carefully, so it doesn’t rumple. When you reach to loosen the knot of the tie at your throat, I can’t wait any longer.
It makes a nice leash by which to lead you. A handle I can use to open you for me. I pull it, hard, silk fisted in my fingers, and your mouth comes down to meet mine.
You smell of cologne and newsprint, of expensive lunches and hostile takeovers. Your clothes cost more than some people’s car payments, and your body beneath them is sculpted from hours in the gym.
Do I care who you are behind your wide, smooth mahogany desk? Behind your contracts and your Mont blanc pen? Do I care who you are in the office? No. Because you’re here now, and you’re mine, and that’s what matters to me.
“Take off your shirt, but leave the tie.”
Your look, quizzical, doesn’t stop you from obeying. You tug the knot harder, widen the loop and ease it from the prison of your collar. You strip yourself of pink linen and toss the shirt to the floor, careless with it in a way you were not with your jacket.
“And the pants.”
Oh, you enjoy this, and the pants are down around your ankles and kicked to the side in minutes. Socks come next, but I don’t tell you to take off your briefs. Not yet. I like to watch the shape of your cock beneath the soft, heather-gray cotton. I like to watch you get hard for me.
This is what I want, to be on my knees in front of you. I want to run my hand over your prick and watch your hips bump forward against my caress. I want to nuzzle the crisp, curling hairs of your thighs and inhale your scent. I want to close my eyes and bump at the front of your boxer briefs with my face, the way a cat will bump at its owner’s hand to encourage petting.
I wet the front of your briefs with my mouth, my breath hot and seeping through the fabric to cover you. I want to feel the outline of your erection with my lips and teeth and tongue blunted by the material. I want you to thread your fingers in my hair and tug to tip my head so I look up at your face.
I want to hear you say, “Please,” as if my mouth on your cock is a gift you’re not certain you deserve.
I want to give it to you.
Down go the briefs, over your thighs, knees, calves, ankles. Now there is nothing between my mouth and your cock but desire, and soon enough not even that, because I engulf you.
That sound you make, that low, startled moan, never ceases to amaze and arouse me. I am on my knees before you and sucking your dick, my hand on your balls, and you whisper my name.
That is the gift you give me, the sound of my name in a rough rasp. You give me your need, your desire, your passion. You give me your ecstasy, too, the taste of you flooding my mouth.
I want to come with your cock lodged in my throat and your hands pulling my hair. I want to come to the sound of my name, shouted, and the pulse of your prick against my tongue.
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